


assassins down the avenue

by green_postit



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mirror Universe, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/pseuds/green_postit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how Christine Chapel falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	assassins down the avenue

She falls in love with Roger Korby despite her better judgment.

He's diabolical and cruel and when he fucks her, he leaves long pink scars rolling up and down her back and bloody bite marks across her slender shoulders. He likes to watch the bruises bloom on her tanned skin, likes the stain of purple and yellow and brown work in combination with each other.

He sucks her flesh an angry red, relentlessly abuses the sensitive areas on her body that he methodically mapped out, clipboard in hand, her arms and legs strapped down like a struggling test subject.

He still fucks every long legged intern and high, tight ass that passes through his doors, but Christine loves him all the same.

Then comes the day he pins her down with one broad hand and tells her they're over. He kisses her briefly, a tender press of the lips, before he digs his thumb and index finger into her right eye socket until she screams and half her vision blacks out.

He pulls her eye from her head and sighs with profound disappointment afterward.

He ruins her eye beyond regeneration and she has to patch up the gap herself with shaky hands and a fifth of bourbon as Roger fucks the receptionist in her office.

\--

Christine's holed herself up in her tiny apartment for the last three weeks, the agony that pierces through her vacant eye socket keeping her up at night. Sunlight irritates her good eye and colors seem sharper. The whole world tries to force itself through her solitary eye and it leaves her with a splitting headache.

Her balance is skewed and her she clips her arms and knees on her furniture, can't read a medical chart without needing a break and it takes her a month to orient her abilities to the left side of her body.

When she reads about Roger Korby being honored for his commitment to the Terran Empire, Christine lets loose a howl that makes her floorboards shake. Wrath fuels her recovery. She reads to strengthen her eye and learns that Roger—a prominent medical archaeologist cum neurosurgeon—joined the Fleet.

She marches over to the closest recruiting station and registers as a certified nurse.

Roger was immediately assigned CMO to the ISS Enterprise. She has to pass basic qualifiers. All in all, it takes one year to earn the credits needed to be eligible for service aboard a starship. She ignores the sneers from the other cadets with two eyes and not enough common sense to keep their mouths shut.

She keeps a knife tucked into the standard issued nursing scrubs and makes the older, handsy doctors nervous. She's top of every class, so she's spared the harassment the younger, weaker nurses face.

Three weeks into her posting, she runs into Roger, rumpled and slightly sweaty from whatever piece of ass kept him company.

Chapel thinks 'an eye for an eye' never applied to a situation more.

He broke her heart so she cut his out of his chest.

\--

James Kirk seems to become Captain while no one is looking. One day, Christopher Pike is at the helm and then he's not. Christine's never met Kirk, but like everyone, she knows his reputation.

Kirk's got connections and brains and he's young. The Council of Admirals is terrified of him; entire quadrants of the universe fear him; female cadets try to fuck him and wear their bruises proudly.

With Kirk's regime comes a new slew of supporting characters. Helmsman McKenna, a certifiable psychopath, vanishes between shifts and no one searches too hard. Hikaru Sulu with his old San Franciscan money and fondness for all things poisonous and razor sharp takes over piloting. Bailey, a bastard Christine's cut on not one, not two, but eight separate occasions, was found dead in his quarters, bled out from every major artery, lying in a bed of his own blood.

No one speculates out loud, but Christine knows the young Russian boy was responsible. His fawn eyes and colt body don't trick her for a minute. She administered his physical, saw the nicks on his forearms from training daggers, knows he's been stabbed four times in places that not many can claim to have survived.

Thomas Bates, Pike's oldest friend and Communication officer is the only one that survives the transition. He steps down gracefully, his survival based more on a slew of hand shaking and promises made to Pike. Bates retires to a summer home somewhere in the Lavaran System and Nyota Uhura takes command. Her cold, dark eyes survey the Bridge like a queen might her castle.

Along with Kirk comes his personal command team. The First Officer is Vulcan, which is a first in Empire's history, and after Christine took care of Roger that left the CMO position wide open for the handsome man with the deep-set scowl that Kirk slaps on the ass and sends on his way.

Christine likes Kirk. He's got wicked blue eyes the same color as the one still snugly resting in her head, a cocky smile that somehow flickers between playful and menacing and he lets her keep her Head Nurse title.

He allows her to play with the more irritating crewmembers, doesn't mind when they come back with a finger or three missing and laughed with his whole body when she told him about Roger.

She likes Kirk, and likes the power that comes with her job. Roger's been dead for three months and her vengeance complete, but she still finds herself on the ISS Enterprise.

It's not such a bad thing.

\--

Leonard McCoy is a gorgeous man. He's tall and strong and his voice is gruff and carries a deep Southern drawl that slips out whenever he's tired or irritated.

He's got long fingers and a wicked mind and can draw the most beautiful screams out of his patients that Christine's ever heard. He moves around Sickbay with the grace of a conductor, wields a laser scalpel with inhuman precision and dexterity.

She once saw him saw the lungs out of a man and keep him alive for the whole ordeal.

She respects McCoy in a way she never did Roger, appreciates his skills and abilities and in return earns McCoy's respect in the OR. She'd go as far as saying she likes McCoy; finds an odd comfort in his sturdy, menacing presence.

She's there the day one of the Centarians they were experimenting on breaks through the restraints and uses one of his blue tipped talons to slash McCoy's face in half.

She reacts on adrenaline and instinct—grabs the knife from her garter—and rams it through the Centarian's neck. The creature spurts thick blue blood across her uniform and face before it twitches to death.

McCoy curses up a storm, holds his bloodied face together with one hand. Christine stabs the Centarian again before she grabs a wrap and presses it against McCoy's face.

Kirk enters Sickbay at that exact moment, cocky grin faltering at the sight of McCoy's dripping face and the river of blue slowly pooling around the operating table.

"Problems?" He's amused. McCoy growls under the pressure of her hands. Kirk ambles over to them, shoos her away with a flick of his wrist, and peels back the wrap to survey the damage to McCoy's face for himself.

"Report."

Christine straightens her posture, heels clicking together. "The Centarian broke free from the restraint and cut Doctor McCoy's face, Captain. I killed it."

"Can you fix it?" Kirk's eerie blue eyes are still running across the red gash that divides McCoy's face, the vertical line that stretches from his right eyebrow to left cheek.

"Of course, Captain."

Kirk huffs out his understanding, his thumb prodding the skin around the slash carefully. McCoy covers his wince with a glare.

"Leave it." Kirk finally decides. "That Centarian did me a favor."

McCoy snarls and pushes Kirk away with an insubordination that would have left any other person dead.

"What? Cut me?" McCoy snaps, shoulders coiling with the need to strike. Kirk looks nonchalant as he presses forward again, grabs McCoy's chin with his fingers, squeezes.

"No, fuck up that pretty face of yours. Maybe now I won't have to discipline so many members of my crew for their inappropriate thoughts about _my_ CMO."

McCoy locks his jaw so hard Christine hears the 'click'. "Aye, Captain," he hisses through clenched teeth.

Kirk's laser stare is suddenly direct at her. The corner of his mouth curls into a boyish grin. He reaches toward her eye patch and swipes his finger across the surface in a circular motion. She can feel the phantom touch and she shivers.

"There. Much better." He smiles wolfishly and strolls out of Sickbay just as unbothered as he entered.

When she finishes sealing McCoy's face shut—with silk floss and a needle—she washes his blood from her hands, washes the Centarian's dried, tacky blood from her face. When she looks in the mirror above the sink, she sees what Kirk was talking about.

He used the Centarian's thick, sky blue blood to draw an eye on her patch.

\--

She's walked in on Kirk and McCoy so many times that they barely notice her anymore.

She's caught them in every conceivable position and angle, has seen McCoy on his knees and Kirk on his back, seen them splayed out on desks and couches and the floor, against walls and doors.

Today is no exception. Kirk's got McCoy bent over his desk, rocking into him with swift, deep thrusts that have McCoy wilting, leaking apart in Kirk's hands. There are days when Kirk likes to put on a little show, likes to keep McCoy strung out for his whole shift, makes McCoy beg his throat hoarse until Kirk gives in and fucks him.

Those days usually end with Chapel's patience frayed and her staying long after her shift has ended to patch up whatever retaliation McCoy deems acceptable. Kirk always comes out bruised and bleeding and looking well and truly fucked, and he'll smile and make lewd comments about her breasts and ass but never tries to touch.

McCoy and Kirk have one of the most dysfunctional relationships on board, and Christine says this knowing Uhura's somehow managed to fuck Spock and not end up shattered.

Uhura's how she ends up in McCoy's office. She had received a transfer request of the highest importance and gave it to Christine, knowing that finding McCoy usually meant finding Kirk, and that Christine had a knack for finding McCoy.

"This better be important, Chapel." Kirk snaps, his hips stuttering to a stop, buried right inside McCoy.

"I've got a personal transfer you need to approve, Captain." she keeps her eye on Kirk, never lets herself gander a peek at her boss. Kirk'd take her good eye for fun before he really laid into her.

Kirk sighs, unabashedly pulls out of McCoy and motions for her to hand him the file. McCoy moans and sags against the desk, his breathing quick and stuttered.

Kirk's face lights up when he reads the PADD. "That cocksucking son-of-a-bitch!" He laughs, leans down to bite McCoy's shoulder.

"God help us," McCoy groans in exasperation, pushes Kirk's hungry mouth off his shoulder. He seems to know what's got Kirk so thrilled. He pulls his pants up, winces and reaches for his shirt. Kirk shoots him a look that clearly tells him he isn't finished with him yet, but his smile brightens the room.

"Chapel!" he barks. Christine snaps to attention. "Tell the bridge crew to crack out the good booze. Scotty's coming home."

\--

'Scotty' is Montgomery Scott, the son of Wallace Scott, the Butcher of Scotland.

Christine's mother used to scare her into subordination with stories of The Butcher, the burly Captain that used his war axe to cut his way through a Class Two hostile planet and declared himself king. The Empire, thrilled with the wealth the planet provided them, rewarded his loyalty by upholding his declaration.

Christine expects Montgomery to be a spoiled, arrogant, savage. Instead, he's a puckish troublemaker who grins at everyone and whistles cheery tunes whenever he walks. He slits two throats to get Chief Engineer and Kirk smiles through the whole ceremony celebrating his quick promotion.

Instead of cutting through bodies like his father, Montgomery likes to decompress people in shuttle pods, cracks open the airlocks just enough to create a vacuum, laughs and takes bets on how long it'll take for the pressure to rip the body apart and spit the chunks of flesh into the frigid blackness of space.

He's best friends with Kirk, drinks and jokes and cheats at cards with him. He's got the complete loyalty of the engineering staff and in turn, trained every red shirt to excel in all standard areas of engineering lest they become the newest body to be sucked apart.

He invented the Agonizer while at the Academy, after a night of pounding back whiskey with Kirk, made the very first one out of spare parts lying around their poker table. He keeps the Enterprise purring, the weapons operational, and improves the warp drives. He's credited with cross-dimensional beaming and never brags.

By all rights, he's brilliant enough to be Captain of his own ship, but prefers the excitement of engineering without the responsibility of actual captaincy. He likes getting his hands dirty; likes the noise and frenzy.

His eyes are a murky blue, almost gray, and his hair is a shimmery copper that's always flying off his head, sticks up from static like a mad scientist. His beard is messy and just a little darker than his hair and he's got a long, thick, pink scar that bisects his throat—an assassination attempt that never took—that makes his neck look like it's smiling. His grins are all teeth and his accent slides against her skin like oil.

Currently, she's got his shirt off, running her hands and a dermal regenerator over the blackened, third degree burns that run up and down his body from an explosion in the engine room that killed four people. His arms are solid and broad—compact muscle from the heavy lifting, grunt work, not like a prince at all. Despite the charred skin, Christine can see the fine dusting of tiny freckles.

He smiles at her, eyes clear and blown wide from the medication keeping him numb. His fingers are loosely curled around her wrist—at first a threat—but now, his thumb carefully rubs across her pulse, back and forth, causing havoc against her raw nerves.

She takes a long time to clear up the burns, can't stop sliding her fingers across his new, pink skin. His muscles bunch and relax under her touch. She's so hopelessly turned on by the time he's done that she wobbles.

"Yeh know," he begins, voice low and dirty and Christine feels a spike of heat flash between her legs. His eyes are twinkling, his handsome, round race stretched wide from his smile. "Y'r in tha presence of royalty, lass."

As far as pick up lines go, it's awful. 

Three hours later, when Montgomery has her screaming her throat raw, she can't find it in herself to care.

\--

When they fuck, they fuck like they're dying. Monty holds her against walls, slips his calloused fingers under her skirt and rubs her clit in brisk strokes that leave her senses scraped, has her thrashing for more.

She'll hook a shaky leg around his waist and he'll release her arms and hold her tight around her hips, use his strength to drag her up the wall, pins her against his chest and gets her off on his thick, blunt fingers.

He'll bite and scratch and bruise her, suck angry red marks on her neck and leave her exhausted and wrecked. He'll run his palms across her quivering stomach and kiss her bellybutton, push her thighs apart, lick the crease of her pelvis and make her spasm around his tongue.

She'll lock her knees around his ears and scream and twist and make him laugh and suck and lick all the harder, make her fuck the tongue that'll be slipped out for fingers that are in turn slipped out for the thick length of his cock.

Sometimes, he'll pester her, buzz around Sickbay with minor scrapes and cuts and demands she kiss them better, get her so irritated that she'll push him into McCoy's office, knock him to the floor and ride him till he's arching, legs twitching and hands gripping the hem of her skirt, trying to pull her in closer. She'll never go and he'll always snarl and twist until she's braced in his arms, his hungry mouth tearing into hers, and he'll rock into her at angles that make her see God.

She'll suck on his tongue till he comes, sometimes she'll bite down, and he won't stop fucking her until her nails have dug into his back and raised eight angry welts.

They fuck like they're dying, except for the times when they don't, when they'll tease and lick and whisper things they never remember after. Monty'll take his time stripping her, will lavish her body, will hit all those sweet spots and make her whimper. They'll fall into his bed and she'll kiss him until her jaw aches and he'll take his time making her moan, keep her strung out on pleasure so intense she always shakes afterward.

He'll pull her into his arms and kiss her neck and she'll feel his smile on her skin and if she holds him a little tighter after, he'll never tell anyone.

\--

It's the third time she's caught him looking at Yeoman Rand.

She's walking to Sickbay when she sees his red shirt, always rumpled instead of starched, dulled from repeat washings to strip the grease and tar, patched up with his own hands if there's a rip or tear.

Rand has her back turned, jotting down the statistics from one of the gauges on the corridor walls. Monty's statue still, arms crossed, face impassive but eyes alert.

Christine doesn't need two eyes to see Janice Rand's beauty, her slender waist and ample curves, her stunning breasts that are barely contained in the Yeoman's uniform. She has legs that go on for miles and sun-kissed hair and her eyes are the palest shade of blue Christine's ever seen.

The jealousy that churns in her belly makes her furious; furious at Rand for being stunning and Monty for noticing. She clenches her fingers into tight fists, barely resists the urge to flip out her knife and ugly Rand up, ruin her like she is.

Instead, she swallows down the sour taste of her envy and quietly approaches Monty. She slides her knife out and when she gets close enough—undetected—she presses the sharp tip between his sixth and seventh vertebrae, stands on her tiptoes and bites at the round shell of his ear.

"Jimmy, s'at you?" 

She laughs despite herself, caught off-guard just enough for him to spin around, haul her up around her hips and pin her to the wall.

She bites his lower lip, tugs until he groans and crushes their bodies together, grinds against her. She's so turned on she can barely breathe, moans when he chases her teeth with his tongue, licks at her mouth like he's starving.

She hooks her legs high up on his back, crosses her ankles and his hands slip under her skirt, his thumb stroking across the dampening material of her panties. He slips the same thumb into her mouth, makes her suck her taste off before he slips it back under, right into her this time. She arches helplessly.

They've been fucking for five months and Christine's still waiting for the day the pads of his calloused fingers don't immediately set her off, until the day he stops reducing her to a writing, blindliny aroused version of herself.

"Tha's it, love," he coos, mouths the curve of her neck, his breathing heavy on her throat. "Let it go."

He sucks down her moan when she comes, licks at his fingers like he can't get enough of the taste, kisses her mouth bloody. Christine can feel how hard he is through his pants, how painful it must be to be that turned on and trapped.

She manages to get her hands as far as his zipper before he gently tugs her off, presses her back against the wall and keeps up his wide, open-mouthed kisses. She tries to protest but he shakes his head, swipes his tongue against hers one last time before pulling off and straightening her uniform.

"A little sufferin's never killed anyone, love."

An ugly thought spawns in her mind: Monty finding Rand and fucking her. It's the third time she's seen him staring and he wouldn't be the only officer on board to want a wild romp with Rand.

His hands are still on her hips, his eyes fixed on her collarbone where her disheveled uniform's not covering. He shakes his head, breaking his trance. He chuckles and Christine's stomach sinks. Her jealousy's eating at her, black and cruel. It hurts more that losing her eye did.

"Apparently, Rand cut Ambassador Cherek's hand off."

"She did." Christine assisted McCoy as he reattached the gropy Ambassador’s hand.

"Been tryin' all week, but I cannae figure out where she keeps her weapon."

"Keeps her wea..." Christine laughs, sudden and unexpected, even to her ears. Monty quirks an eyebrow and she slips past him. When she breathes in, she feels clear, light. Her smile makes her eye patch wrinkle.

"Wha?" Monty's confused but smiling, instinctively follows her body with his hands.

"Her hair," Christine smiles, leans in and kisses his lips. She nips and he growls. She's flush against the wall again in seconds, Monty licking at the spot on her neck that makes her twitch.

"Whatever happened to 'a little suffering'?" she gasps, groans as he pulls his dick out of his pants.

"Sufferin', lass. Not torture."

\--

Christine never lets Monty see her without her eye patch. He asks from time to time but she can always distract him with her hand on his cock or will slide his hand up her thigh and he'll have forgotten about it after they've both come.

She has the afternoon shift in Sickbay and spent the whole night scraping her knees raw on Monty's carpet. She can't even imagine how tender his back must feel, burnt through a layer—easy. She takes a quick shower, plans on slipping out while he's still dead to the world.

She steps out of his shower, pins her hair up in a sloppy, wet bun and begins to untie the knots of the damp patch, planning on switching it out for a fresh one.

Monty cracks open the door, sleep mussed and shirtless and she panics; tries to retie the knots quickly. His arm snaps out quickly, grabs both of her wrists—clutches them in one of his hand—her arms twisted behind her back.

"Let go." She struggles.

"Chrissy," his voice is gentle, coaxing. Christine wants to scream in frustration, desperation. She feels like she's caught in a snare, considers using force to break his hold, except the fight dies in her when she feels his lips on her shoulder, his soft red hair brush her cheek.

"Please." She's heard him beg before, usually for release or more, but never like this.

She lowers her arms slowly, whimpers and bites her lip. His hand holds the loose strings together, still pulled across her eye. It's only when she nods that he slowly lowers the wet patch.

He tilts her face to the mirror, kisses the end of her jaw. He wraps his arms around her naked torso and pulls him against his chest.

"Bloody gorgeous," he growls, dick hard and sliding against the base of her spine. "Y're fuckin' gorgeous, Chrissy."

He leads her back to bed, mouths at the skin above her ruined eye, keeps one hand wrapped around the back of her neck, his other used to tuck wayward strands of her hair behind her ear.

He kisses her till her lips are numb and curls her in his arms and they spend the morning twisted in his sheets, fucking languidly, comfortably.

When she finally pulls her clothing on, Monty slides up behind her, presses her eye patch against her face and ties it behind her head. The strings are a familiar pressure, his hands even more so.

"Not with me, lass."

She nods, exits before she caves in to her desire to push him back to the bed and deal with McCoy's punishment for tardiness.

\--

She sometimes forgets Monty and Kirk are best friends. They met through mutual connections as children, the Butcher and the War Hero's sons.

Kirk calls him Scotty and Monty calls him Jimmy and they fight like brothers and drink like fish. Monty's often in Kirk's quarters, on the Bridge. Besides McCoy, Monty's the only person she's ever seen openly defy Kirk and keep his life.

They rarely argue, though. There are times where they seem to share Borg hive mind, laughing in tandem and for the exact duration at funny jokes. They communicate non-verbally most of the time and know each other's tells in poker. They still play every week and never make a credit more than what they brought in.

Monty keeps their cups full and Kirk gives him a carte blanche on all matters relating to the Enterprise. They function like a married couple, but despite her numerous attempts to pry past stories out of Monty, he smirks and tells her to ask 'Jimmy'.

It shouldn't shock her that one Friday, at the end of her and McCoy's shift, that Kirk comms them both and tells them to report to his quarters.

They've been testing the regenerative nature of the Ghecians, slicing off body parts and charting how long it took for each limb to grow back. McCoy's sure he can bioengineer their cells into an ointment. He's chipper, and doesn't grumble at Kirk's request at all.

They strips off their gloves and toss them toward the waste disposal. They connect with the bucket in a wet slap. Ghecian blood is like jelly and smells like smoke, a smell Christine's going to need to shower out of her hair.

When they arrive at Kirk's quarters, Monty's there, lying next to Kirk on his ornately large bed, the sheets rumpled like they were rolling around.

"Should we leave you two alone?" McCoy's voice lacks his usual snap, but Kirk laughs him off and beacons them to join. Monty pulls her down on him in unison with Kirk tugging at McCoy.

"I see you've started early," McCoy drawls, accent slipping.

"Never too early, Doctor." Monty smirks. When he kisses her, she can taste the alcohol on his tongue, thick and sweet. He takes another sip and she chases the alcohol with her mouth, licks the remaining drops from his pallet. He tugs her hair to pull her off, but dives in with both his hands and holds her against him.

McCoy reaches out with his long arms and grabs the bottle, takes a swig, and swallows without wincing. Kirk's eyes darken and his breathing goes shallow. McCoy nods, mumbles, "Not bad, Scott."

Kirk pushes McCoy to his sheets, bites his lips, grabs his face and tilts his head for a better angle. McCoy growls and pushes Kirk off, glares as he swipes at the spit shining on his lips with the back of his hand.

"Scotty, mine's broken," Kirk pouts, wheedling. He perks up when he looks at Christine. "Trade?"

Monty belts out a laugh, his grip tightening a fraction. "Nay, Jimmy. Not this one."

Kirk sighs dramatically and rolls back over McCoy. McCoy doesn't complain, but shifts to make himself comfortable. He keeps drinking from the bottle and bats away Kirk's hands whenever they drop below his hips.

She has no idea how long they stay in Kirk's room, her curled around Monty, drinking from his cup while he adorns her neck with teasing kisses, has his hand under her shirt, palm wide against her belly, just holding her close.

She figures she must have been there for a while, because Monty's tossed her knife to the floor and Kirk's doing his damnedest to crawl into McCoy's mouth through his, McCoy either drunk enough to not care or not notice, but responding back in turn.

Monty doesn't even seem to notice, too caught up in the way her pulse increases. He tells her she can watch them if she wants, and Christine squirms. Her skin's hot and Monty's fingers are inside of her and rocking. He knows how she likes to be prepped; two fingers circling her clit, making heat flush through her. She’s already sensitive and every rub gets her a little way closer to coming. She squeezes around his fingers when she's a little too past incoherent and he pulls out, kisses the curve of her neck.

"Do this often?" she whimpers, tosses her head back, presses her lips against his ear. He pulls the pins from her bun, lets her hair fall around her shoulders as he eases his pants down, bites her shoulder when he pulls his cock out.

"Nay." His accent is so thick he butchers the word. His diction's never been amazing, but whenever they fuck she feels like she needs subtitles. It drives her wild, though, knowing it's her that's demolishing the vocabulary of a prince.

He drops down to his back and she scrambles to turn, climbs his chest so she can get her mouth on his and her hands on his dick. She guides him in and he snaps his hips up the rest of the way. She arches and grinds down, takes him in so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat.

McCoy moans to her side and she glances over to see Kirk's mouth stretched around his cock, McCoy's hands fisting his short hair. It's a gorgeous sight, one most people would give a small fortune to see, but it's not half as interesting as Monty’s flushed, round face screwed up in concentration as he moves in her the way she goes boneless for, the way that makes her scream from somewhere deep in her belly.

The muscles in his stomach flex and tense under her palms, already burning hot from the alcohol. He rotates his hips and she releases a high-pitched moan that makes Monty smirk like he's won.

Her world has narrowed to the pressure of Monty between her legs, his hands on her hips, his mouth on her nipples through the thin material of her nurse's uniform. She fists his hair and tugs his mouth to hers and he obediently follows.

Realization hits her all at once. 

She's in love with Montgomery Scott. 

He thrusts up into her, stills his hips and comes when she clenches. He kisses her and she shakes through her orgasm. He holds her against his chest and kisses her hair, chuckles and keeps her close.

The last person she loved took her eye.

She wonders what Monty'll take when he's through with her.

\--

The Corbin are a foul race of squid like monsters with rocks for fists and slushy voices that make Christine drowsy. They're short-tempered and violent and resist the whole time Kirk and Spock suppress their poorly organized revolts.

McCoy stands next to her, off to the side, away from the 'battle', arms crossed. She stares at him from the corner of her eye, thinking how Kirk was wrong, how the scar he made her leave only seems to emphasize McCoy's features, how hazel his eyes stand in contrast to the fading pink, how the scar all but forces you to focus on his plush, bow-shaped mouth.

McCoy tilts his head and she sees a distant blur of red behind him, a gait she'd know even if rendered deaf. Kirk calls McCoy over and she fully turns, smiles at Monty who's crawled out of engineering to see her.

He suddenly breaks off into a sprint, shouts something in his unintelligible Scottish accent.

The rock fist connects fully with her cheek. She's too surprised to make any sort of noise, and the pebbles and sharp stones from the ground that bite into her hip and back make her wince and hiss.

The Corbin raises its fist again, directly over her head in a manner she knows would crush her skull, but Monty tackles it around the waist and they both sail to the ground, rolling and grappling frantically.

Monty manages to pin it and smashes its face against a gray boulder, keeps smashing until there's a wet squish and the creature goes limp.

When he stands, yellow Corbin blood peppers his cheeks, clashes with the red of his shirt and the coppery orange of his thinning hair. He looks like fire, radiates heat and anger and Christine flushes at how hot she finds him, how badly she wants to crawl on her knees and lick at his cock until he rips open her uniform and fucks her till she can't stand.

Another Corbin appears and Monty grabs it by its worn vest and tugs until the creature is brought to his knees. He slams his Agonizer under its throat and switches it on in one swift movement. Blood bubbles past the Corbin's lips as it screams, its body jerking like a fish on a line.

Monty twists his wrist, milks out another agonizing howl of pain. His eyes are murderous, mouth snarled into an ugly hook. Christine knows he's going to make the alien suffer, make its nerves short out until its body physically shuts itself down and leaves its mind trapped in a decomposing prison.

The Corbin is as good as dead and Kirk is gleefully laughing from somewhere behind her. She stands and slides against Monty's body, claws at his face until he wraps his arm around her and slams their mouths together.

The kiss leaves him hard and her wet, makes her cling to his shoulders, has him sucking her tongue like he's trying to draw her into him.

"I love you," he growls, arm tightening as if to prevent her from escaping. She's stunned but Monty keeps kissing her, desperate and needy. "I fuckin' love you."

Emotion swells in her chest. She nods, can't find her voice, keeps nodding and lets her kiss be all the confirmation he need. He moans and finally drops his Agonizer and the Corbin to paw at her back, runs his hand down the back of her leg.

Kirk whistles. They break apart, neither doing much to hide their arousal, their delight.

"You think you could train McCoy like that, Scotty?" McCoy's eyebrow twitches, lips curling into a snarl. Kirk throws his arm around McCoy's shoulder and laughs with his whole neck exposed.

Monty holds her high around her back, fingers coiling around the hair that was knocked loose from her bun. He smiles, eyes twinkling mischievously, filled with love and devotion and Christine smiles so wide her cheeks hurt.

"'n deny you tha pleasure, Jimmy? I cannea."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Villains Around the Boulevard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/310535) by [affectingly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/affectingly/pseuds/affectingly)




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